“I…I can’t recall if I caught a man’s name or not.”
“Think, Mr. Coleman!” Kit jumped to her feet. “The sooner you give us a name, the sooner we can put a stop to anyone else getting killed—namely you.”
Mr. Coleman paled even more.
Jackson sighed.Strongheaded, loose-tongued woman.He tucked Kit’s hand into the crook of his arm. “The man’s been through a lot, Wife. Let’s give him a breather.” He glanced at Mr. Coleman. “Finish your tea, sir. We’ll give you a few minutes to collect yourself.”
He guided Kit to the corner of the room but had hardly stopped moving when she hissed into his ear, “We have got to find out who Mr. Blade—and Carky—work for before anyone discovers Mr. Coleman is here.”
“You’re the detective,” he whispered back.
Her lips twisted, a sure sign that mind of hers was running laps behind her pretty face. “No,” she said at length. “I am only half of a detective agency.” She peered up at him. “And I think my father may be of some help.”
“In what way?”
She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Coleman, then lowered her voice. “The case my father has been working is related to this whole thing. He was hired to find an employee of Willis & Percival, one who had information on an embezzlement scandal or was maybe even in on the embezzling himself. That sounds an awful lot like Mr. Coleman, for the other man my father was investigating was suddenly killed—Mr. Blade. Just this morning my father said he was looking into who the murderer might be.”
Jackson reared back his head. “Smathers?”
Kit angled her jaw. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
A rap on the front door broke his train of thought. He ran his hands along Kit’s arms. “Wait for any further questioning until I see who is here.”
He strode from the room and swung open the front door—only to see his big bear of a father-in-law with a glower on his face and what appeared to be dried milk on his shoulder. Bella bounced in his arms.
“Ba-ba!” she shrieked and lunged towards him.
Jackson laughed at Kit’s father as he collected her. “Papa,” he corrected, then faced Graybone. “Taken up nannying, have you?”
“Don’t start,” Graybone rumbled. “Where’s that daughter of mine?”
Jackson stepped aside, allowing the man plenty of space to stomp by. “Don’t be too hard on her,” he called after him. “Kit may have found the murderer you’re looking for.”
Chapter Seventeen
Early mornings were meant for coffee—especially Mondays—though Charles knew a handful of dandies and a woman or two who would shout him down for such a blunt affront to tea. Jackson wouldn’t, though. And as Charles slapped his money onto the street stall counter and snatched up a full mug, he sincerely hoped this offering would not only mend a fence but soften the blow he must deliver to his friend.
Two blows, actually.
“Thanks, Miffy.” Charles tipped his head at the frizzle-haired seller, a man with skin as dark as the roasted beans he served.
“Think naught o’ it, guv’nor.” The old fellow tipped his hat, the flourish of it nearly banging into the great metal urn employing more than half the space on the small cart. “I’ll have it hot and ready same time tomorrow for ye.”
Charles turned on his heel, leaving behind the somewhat nutty, burnt scent of roasting coffee beans. Clutching his old mug in both hands, he stepped into the fray of foot traffic that never failed to surround the Royal Exchange. The moment he turned from Cornhill onto Leadenhall Street, he spied a pair of broad shoulders bobbing a handspan above most of the other pedestrians. Charles upped his pace, gaining Jackson’s side with only a few drops of liquid sloshing over the rim.
“Here.” He handed Jackson the coffee.
Jackson didn’t miss a step, as if someone matching his pace with a steaming morning brew was an everyday occurrence. He did, however, slip him a narrow-eyed glance as he took a sip. “Mmm. That hits the spot. Why so accommodating this morning?”
“Several reasons. One to gauge how gammy you are about the whole Coleman thing.” He studied Jackson’s face.
And as he expected, those dark brows of his lowered into a squall line. “You should have told me, no matter what Kit said.”
Hah! As if that wife of his had given him any choice. Charles dodged a clerk running full bore down the center of the pavement, spreading his hands as he once again joined Jackson’s side. “She was very persuasive. I had no choice but to swear to secrecy.”
“Bested by a skirt?” Jackson snorted. “That’s a pathetic excuse.”
“You ought to know,” he quipped right back. “You’re the one who married her.”
